


tumblr drabbles

by yuliaplisetskaya



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Drabbles, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-06-24 09:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15627909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuliaplisetskaya/pseuds/yuliaplisetskaya
Summary: small drabbles (< 1k words) from tumblr, mostly fluff and reflections. additional tags will be at the beginning of each chapter if needed.





	1. made of stars

“do you know you’re made of stars?” viktor asks, his fingers tangled in yuuri’s soft, messy hair. yuuri looks up to meet viktor’s eyes with a frown etched on his face, the thoughts visibly flitting behind his eyes messy, soft, tangled.

“if this is another metaphor for the competitions i should have won,” yuuri starts, and oh, how viktor wants to correct him, how he wants to tell him that those comments were meant as compliment instead of an expression of disappointment. but yuuri knows this, and viktor knows yuuri knows this, so he lets it rest instead of arguing.

“yuuri, no,” viktor shifts his weight to let yuuri sit up and prop his head on viktor’s shoulder. from this position, he can hear yuuri’s stuttering breath. each inhale sounds hesitant. “before i met you, i saw the world through an opaque lens. it’s like my heart has been residing in a glasshouse with blurry windows, and i thought whatever light managed to filter through was the highest amount of happiness a person could have.

"and then you came, and suddenly everything was so bright and warm. it was a pleasant surprise,” viktor cups yuuri’s face in his hands. “my sunshine. my star. you’re the centre of my universe,”

yuuri blushes at that, but finds enough composure to ask, quietly, “what happened to the glasshouse?”

“you love me, and the glass shattered,” viktor presses a soft kiss to his nose. “then, i understand how it’s like to finally live,”

“does that mean i’m good enough for you?” asks yuuri, a question he knows the answer to, a question viktor knows he knows the answer to. still, viktor answers it anyway.

“you’re more than anything i ever dared to hope for,"


	2. of seaside towns

“this is nice,” viktor says. one of his hands is buried beneath makkachin’s fur, stroking back and forth. small waves leave his feet awash then retreat where they came from; grains of sand stubbornly stick to the spaces between his toes. he focuses on the warmth, the sensation, the contrast they provide.

“mm? what is?” yuuri replies absentmindedly, his black hair billowing softly with the wind. there’s also warmth, there, in the fond gaze behind thick glasses that always sees through him, and the smile it brings with it, both on his lips and yuuri’s. in front of them, sunlight bleeds upward, tears the horizon apart and leaves fissures of orange against the formerly dark sky.

“this,” viktor gestures around. “knowing that mornings don’t have to freeze, that beaches aren’t always empty, that hope is always, always somewhere, hanging around, waiting for me to reach it,”

yuuri smiles and sits down next to him. his jeans, cuffed above the ankles as they are, still catch the furthest tip of the ocean where it kisses his legs, and they’re now drenched, but he doesn’t shiver. there’s no need to, not here. “i’m glad you’re here now,” he says, and means it. “the entirety of you, with me. i’m so happy,”

“me too, solnyshko,” viktor whispers. “did i tell you that i grew up in a seaside town as well?”

“you did,” yuuri leaves the answer as a kiss that lingers, and viktor holds on to that.

“but it’s nothing like this,” yuuri nods, gestures for him to go on, “the sky was always muted, blue but the heavy sort, and the cracks on the ice beneath my feet led to a place in which i could never see.

"is it okay if i tell you about that?” and this is how they always work–when viktor opens up, yuuri meets him where he is. yuuri’s hand finds viktor’s, and he eases it out of the balled fist it’s formed.

“i’d like to hear anything you’re ready to say, vitya,” he assures, and so it starts.


	3. cold night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> viktor's POV, on dealing with depression post-yuuri

The air at the crack of dawn is biting cold.

The hours Viktor spent tossing and turning culminate in him deciding to forgo sleeping altogether. It’s just not coming tonight. He kicks the blanket off, only to promptly freeze and regret his decision. He pads slowly to the living room, the wooden floor cold beneath his feet. The hallway is dark, the walls he leans to for support also freezing. There’s a faint light coming from the direction of the kitchen, where he knows the apartment’s wifi works best at.

“You woke up,” Yuuri murmurs from his seat in front of his laptop. His hair is messy, strands stuck out every which way, his glasses askew. Viktor knows he hasn’t moved since Viktor went to bed last night, can somehow sympathetically feel Yuuri’s legs falling asleep, folded underneath his lap. There’s a cup of coffee next to his papers that’s grown cold. Viktor takes it and dumps the content into the sink before setting to make a new one.

“Can’t sleep,” he answers, making sure the noise he creates from opening cupboards and turning the heater on is enough to drown his voice. Yuuri hears him anyway. Yuuri always hears him, even in the moments when he doesn’t want Yuuri to worry over him, especially in the moments when he feels he’s too much to handle, both for himself and for everyone else.

As if on cue, his husband stops typing and turns to face him, a soft, weary smile plastered on his face. “So it’s that kind of night, hm,” Yuuri extends his hand to caress Viktor’s arm, pulling him in. Viktor wants to cry, but there’s nothing inside him to be spilled. Only cold, gaping loneliness remains.

The first time this happened after they were together, Viktor could only assume what Yuuri was thinking– _what do you mean you can’t sleep? You, whose schedule is arranged like you’ve got an 8am class, who can never stay awake during movie marathons?_ But none of that came. Instead, Yuuri reached his arm around Viktor’s back and rubbed circles on the nape of his neck, eyelids drooping but fighting to stay alert.

_It’s happened to me too, you know_ , said Yuuri, _I know how it feels like to have your mind eat at you until sleeping is an incomprehensible act. I used to doze off for an hour, only to be awake for another two._

_I’ll stay_ , said Yuuri, and Viktor held on to that promise like a lifeline.

And today, Yuuri once again meets Viktor’s drowning self at the shore, even though Yuuri does it with joints that crack when he finally stretches. He gets up to take the teabag out of the cupboard and is reaching for the jam when Viktor stops him.

“I can make my own tea,” he reassures Yuuri, who only smiles at him.

“And I can make my own coffee, but you chose to take care of me,” Viktor stays quiet, stirring sugar into the steaming cup he’s manning. Silent stretches as they prepare each other’s drink, broken only by the clink of teaspoon against porcelain mugs. Yuuri blows slowly over the rim of his mug and sips. Viktor downs his tea in one go; the sweetness burns his tongue and he welcomes it.

“Let’s go back to bed,” invites Yuuri. Viktor shakes his head.

“You’re working on your thesis. I shouldn’t have disturbed you. I’m sorry,”

Yuuri has expressed his desire to go back to school a few years ago (“bad decision, I regret everything, grad school was a mistake”), and is now preparing to graduate in a few months. Viktor knows his final thesis has something to do with copyrights in artistic sports; he has helped with a few part of the research, but the end product is written in Japanese way beyond his level of fluency. It honestly impresses him, even if Yuuri constantly denies being anything special. If Yuuri were a night owl before, he’s a night gremlin now, often losing two or three days worth of sleep to meet his deadlines.

But Yuuri is already closing his work windows and shutting his laptop down. He crosses the distance between them and kisses Viktor slowly. Yuuri’s lips are warm against his. He can feel the tears freely falling down now. Steady fingers wipe the droplets off his cheeks and he leans to the touch that he craves, already knowing there’s no fight left in him.

Viktor follows Yuuri back to the bedroom, where he drapes the blanket over the two of them. Viktor curls in under Yuuri’s arm and revels in the security it provides, hoping it lasts forever.

“It will,” Yuuri says, as if he’d said it out loud. “I’m here. Go to sleep if you can,”

There’s something in the way Yuuri’s hand methodically card his hair, or the way Yuuri hugs like he’s never going to let go, or the way Yuuri keeps his lips close to Viktor’s skin as he whispers reassurance that fills his heart with warmth and slowly closes the void loneliness creates with rays of light that makes him feel like everything’s going to be okay. He knows the coldness won’t be completely gone anytime soon, but at least now he can rely on Yuuri to help him melt it.

Outside, the sun rises. The last thing Viktor sees before he feels his eyes close shut out of tiredness is his husband, beautiful brown eyes glimmering in sunlight, smiling down at him. He falls asleep feeling warm, loved, alright.


	4. ice adolescence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> viktor-centric, pre-viktuuri

the lake wasn’t anywhere near viktor’s home. it was a fifteen minute walk from the hotel he was staying in after nationals, his eighth title secure in his pocket. the vast landscape swallowed everything around it, turned them into backdrop for the winter night, and viktor felt so small amidst all of them.

everyone had invited him out to celebrate in the evening, but he’d politely refused, even going so far as leaving the banquet an hour earlier than he usually did. his decision had been met with no small amount of confusion and disappointment, _but it won’t be fun without you, vitya! come on, one more round? if it’s stifling FFKK officials you’re avoiding…_

yet here he was, in the freezing weather, staring into nothing in particular. the body of water was frozen but only barely; he knew it would break if he just took one step on it. he wondered if it would be different, skating outdoor in an expanse of place he’d never been, on and on until either he or the ground beneath him give in, but he didn’t bring his skates here, so he only stooped down to touch the cold surface that instantly bit his fingers.

the question that had been stuck in his throat threatened its way out, perching on the tip of his tongue: _are you still in love with me?_ there was no answer, not in the cracks on the ice, not in the whistling wind that deafened his ears. _because i’ve given you everything, and it feels like i’m getting less in return._

but that was such a selfish question, as if love could only be handed if there was a guarantee of something exchanged, like it was a transaction instead of burning passion. except there wasn’t much to burn anymore now. he could feel the edges going blunt, slowly but surely, when landing jumps and flubbing them almost felt the same, and his blades could only go flat forward. his movements turned to ashes before it reached his heart. viktor didn’t know what caused it, or when it started, only that it did, and that he wasn’t asking the right thing, so he bent over and, when his lips almost touched the ice, whispered something he’d been so afraid of voicing: _am i still in love with you?_

and if he was honest with himself, getting anything but yes as an answer scared him, because where else could he go? where else would he want to go? _i’ve given my all for you_ , he said, _i don’t want to fall out of love. please give me more of your time_.

it felt like such an eventuality, though, and he didn’t want to jinx it any further, but he really wanted to stop time and float there, in the space where he burned bright, because there was only emptiness on the other side of world. makkachin was now whining at his exposed ankles, buried deep in snow, and his ears were turning numb and so was his heart, and time stopped for no one. as he walked back he wished this would thaw come morning. his prayers came out in fogs, and he watched them dissipate in empty air.

_please come true_ , he hoped.

–

{ _i hear a voice weeping in the distance–_

_have you been abandoned too?_ }


	5. hanahaki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> basically canon events but with non-angsty hanahaki

ok ok so i know hanahaki happens when you’re in unrequited love with someone but i always like the concept of coughing of flower petals whenever your dreams don’t come true. the larger the dream is to you, the more flowers come up. these are the dreams you know realistically will never happen anyway, and your mind labels them as wishful thinking, but still, you find yourself going, _what if_.

 

anyway

 

yuuri katsuki was eight or nine when he decided he wanted to focus on figure skating instead of ballet. minako-sensei let him go with a proud smile to hide the small wisps of carnation she sneezed out moments after yuuri left her studio. the flowers were quick to go, however, as she accompanied yuuri to his regional novice competitions and watched her student flourish on the ice.

 

when yuuri was twelve his best friend yuuko told him about victor nikiforov, fresh out of his jgpf win, and out spilled blue roses from yuuri’s gaping mouth. he was too astounded to even notice. takeshi snickered and muttered something along the line of _pathetic kid can’t even hold himself together_ , which earned him a kick on the shin from yuuko.

 

the blue roses came every day after that. because they were whole instead of the usual petals people cough up, yuuri did his best to preserve the shape and lined the flowers up on his desk, put them on a string to hang above his growing victor posters collection. sometimes he’d make flower crowns out of the more recent batch and pretend he was on the ice with victor, the flowers a present from an adoring fan somewhere up in the audience. he coughed up another fresh rose for his trouble.

 

they served as a reminder of sorts for yuuri, as he clawed his way up to japanese junior nationals and junior worlds with no formal coach other than minako-sensei. yuuri clung to the hope, however impossible it might be, that one day he might be able to compete against victor. sometimes his mind got the better of him and reminded him that all these childish imaginations must come to rest by filling his lungs chock full of flowers he struggled to breathe. yuuri just did the same thing he’d been doing for years now: put the roses on display, put his heart on his sleeves, and let his dream go up higher than he could reach.

 

it became a cycle for yuuri. one step higher, two roses more. 4cc bronze in 2011 for yuuri, euros gold for victor. 2013 gpf second alternate for yuuri, third gpf gold for victor. seventh place overall and a bronze for team event in the olympics for yuuri, second olympic gold medal for victor.

 

_closer_ , his heart screams.

 

_you’ll just stumble and fall down like the pathetic person you are_ , his mind replies. and supplies more flowers for his lungs to gasp out, because why not.

 

the night before men’s short program, sochi’s air was the clearest yuuri’s ever inhaled. there were no petals in his respiratory system; finally, after years of tireless fighting, he managed to nab a spot at the finals. now if he could just make the podium, that would be the closest he’s ever been to victor.

 

the night before men’s free skate, yuuri was busy getting his windpipe to clear from the new petals that quickly clogged his airway. his phone laid somewhere to his side on the hotel carpet, mari’s muffled voice getting more and more concerned by the seconds. he didn’t have to see the flowers to know what they signify.

 

_i wish i had more time with you. i wish i’d been there. i wish i weren’t selfish._

 

yuuri pulled through his free program with bruised throat and bloodshot eyes. he said nothing to celestino at the kiss and cry, knowing that if he opened his mouth it wouldn’t be words that came out, but vicchan’s flowers instead.

 

_so this is what grief feels like_ , yuuri thought while struggling to articulate his apologies to his family back home.

 

_i told you so,_ his mind shouted. he choked out a whole blue rose that served as nothing but salt to an open wound.

 

when yuri plisetsky kicked his toilet stall door in and delivered his angry spiel at a yuuri who was too stunned to even react, the russian skater zeroed in on yuuri’s tearstreaked, full-of-flowers face, and let out an “oh my God you’re so pathetic” to hammer his point home, then walked away.

 

here’s the thing, though.

 

victor nikiforov has always had flowers in his lungs and throats and nostrils, even when his nose was so runny he couldn’t feel the flowers piling up. he felt he had always had more flowers than other people in general. most of the times, he didn’t even know what he wished for that could cause such a strong reaction. nevertheless, he learned how to hide his flowers so as to not worry his parents.

 

it’s a skill that came to be useful for his life, because the only thing worse than a sore loser is a sore winner. it’s understandable for the silver or bronze medalists to sneeze out a few petals during the ceremony, and it usually subsided by the time the gala rolled out. as the five-times consecutive champion, naturally victor couldn’t let his flowers run amok. one petal is all it takes for media to hound a gold medalist and call them names on various articles the next day.

 

(after victor won his fourth gpf title, a few jasmine petals made their way out of his mouth during the press conference. media went crazy. even chris subtweeted him, saying “what else could he possibly want, honestly?” before quickly deleting the tweet, but not before victor’s seen it. victor had to mute his entire timeline to regain some semblance of peace.

 

the problem is, victor didn’t know what he wanted. he just knew that there was this empty, gaping hole somewhere inside him, and his body was trying to compensate by filling it with flowers that sometimes overflowed.)

 

ever since meeting yuuri at the sochi gpf banquet, he’d been coughing up whole green carnations. this was the first time he’d ever seen a whole flower from hanahaki, instead of petals. the flower was beautiful, too, for all that it was gross because it was propelled from his airway. it reminded him of yuuri, bright and incandescent and a lifesaver.

 

he didn’t throw the carnations away. he didn’t hide them. he told anyone who asked about it that he fell in love and had yet had a chance to talk to the person recently–that is, of course, until the video of yuuri skating his stammi vicino program surfaced and became viral in mere hours, and victor quickly made plans to move to japan.

 

during victor’s first few weeks in hasetsu, he realised that none of his old flowers showed up anymore. even when he faux-sneezed in front of yuuri to gain his attention, no petals came bursting out of his nose. in their place, only yuuri’s carnations remained.

 

victor thought back to what felt like centuries ago, when his body’s idea of stability was ten different types of flower petals hurled out every time he coughed, and realised that he just wanted to be happy, all along. he didn’t know why he’d thought happiness is complicated.

 

he saw yuuri coo at makkachin, something about russian dogs only understanding russian phrases, and wondered whether happiness has always been this simple.

 

yuri plisetsky came and went as an angry hurricane, leaving jagged pieces of torn roses in his wake. yuuri paid him little mind, his head instead zeroing on the fact that victor stayed. victor chose to stay here and coach him. victor chose to gave him his time. but how much time? how much is enough? how much is too much?

 

yuuri spent too much time making sure he lived up to victor’s standard to notice that he no longer coughed up his familiar blue roses.

 

victor took notice of the old flowers sometimes before regionals. he saw the loop of stringed roses on top of yuuri’s desk and said, _those look familiar_.

 

_it’s not what it looks like,_ yuuri backtracked, _i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to, it’s just, i’ve been looking up to you for years, but i promise, i wish nothing more from you, no more than what you’ve already given me._

 

but victor pressed on. _it’s alright, yuuri. what do you want me to be? i can try to give it to you. your friend? a father figure? your boyfriend? then i’ll try my best._

 

yuuri surprised him though, after overcoming his own surprise. _no, i just want you to be who you are. i just want you to be victor._

 

victor left the beach with a lighter heart, not realising how heavy it had always felt. he woke up the next day with no carnations in sight.

 

after they get married, when victor is having a bad day, yuuri will leave carnations pressed between the book victor’s currently reading. and likewise, when yuuri is having a rough day, victor tucks blue roses inside his gym bag, under his sheets, behind his ears. the fresh flowers serve as a reminder for them, as if saying _you are the one thing i thought would always be impossible, and yet, here you are. thank you. i love you._


	6. piano

there’s a piano in the living room of viktor’s childhood home. it’s now abandoned, like every other part of the house is after his parents moved to the countryside after their retirement and he moved out to his apartment. he honestly can’t remember who in the family can play it, since he never learned to when he was a child. it’s probably out of tune.

“it’s out of tune,” yuuri echoes. he tries out a few notes before continuing his previous task wiping dust off the piano. viktor nods, already making to go to the next room and show yuuri around his old bedroom, but instead his husband plops down on the ancient seat. it makes a creaking noise as yuuri drags it forward across the hardwood floor.

it takes a while for him to recognise it, probably due to the odd way the old piano shapes sound, but phantom of the opera is familiar enough for viktor. “you always love warhorse musics,” yuuri smiles.

“2008. i think i love your performance of this in europeans the most,”

viktor winces. “i have a shit memory, but i’m pretty sure i fell on my quad toe and doubled my other quad that time,”

“but your emotion, it’s like. you were flayed open on the ice, and the audience was left to pick off the pieces you left behind. it was so moving,” yuuri insists.

“well, nothing more challenging than taking something overdone and making it uniquely yours,” viktor pushes yuuri over to the side softly to ask for space for him to sit on, but yuuri just pulls him to his lap.

“i hate warhorse musics when it’s not you doing it,”

“oh darling, but your firebird program was alright,”

“just alright,” yuuri makes a face. his fingers, coated in greyish dust, trace over a few keys before coming to a stop and settling over viktor’s instead.

“you play?” viktor asks.

“sometimes,” yuuri says, and his eyes says, it’s not a big deal. like that one time viktor stumbled upon his undergraduate dissertation online, and he said it’s not a big deal, or that one time viktor walked in on yuuri singing makkachin to sleep, and his voice is so beautiful viktor wanted to weep, but yuuri said it’s not a big deal, surely this sort of thing is something everyone does, something living legends are familiar with?

viktor wanted to tell him that he spends decades practicing one specific thing he practically forgets how to do everything else, but that seemed too heavy for the moment, so instead he asked,  _do you make a habit of this, of making men fall to their knees groveling for your love with just a blink of your beautiful eyes and a disarming smile?_ yuuri shook his head in disbelief, said  _you’re such a sap, vitenka_ , kissed him on the lips briefly, and walked away, leaving viktor and his buzzing feelings alone to gather themselves together in the bedroom.

“i do it to de-stress,” yuuri’s voice breaks the silence. “mostly i try to play the musics you’re skating to. it’s bad enough that you always use warhorse, because without your skating, they just become what they are. figure skating’s overused music that everyone and their grandmother must skate to at least once in a lifetime,” his grips in viktor’s hand tightens. “i mean, now that i think about it, it’s kinda? in character? why you chose me, i mean. alone, i’m an ordinary, dime-a-dozen skater. but you can make me something i wasn’t, something more,”

viktor turns around so he’s now straddling yuuri. he cups yuuri’s face in his hands. “yuuri. we’ve been over this, yes? nothing about you is ordinary. no one will ever get close to the way you create art on ice everytime you skate, not even me. no one will ever manage to make a program horribly arranged to milk the scoring system beautiful the way you do,”

yuuri laughs wryly. “okay. if you say so,”

“one day i’ll make you believe me,” viktor presses a kiss to the crown of his head, “but until then, i’ll just have to keep trying, hm?”

yuuri pushes him off his lap, and viktor obliges, standing at the side of the piano. “i learned this one as soon as you debuted it at stars on ice,” yuuri calls out. “even then, i felt like you were calling out at someone to come to you, to reach you among the stars. like you were alone up there, and you wanted to fly away with someone at your side,”

viktor smiles as he hears the opening notes to stammi vicino plays on. he runs to the corner of the room to dig out the small speaker he’s brought in their suitcase. “that’s beautiful, but my god, that old thing is taking its toll on me,” viktor connects his phone to the speaker and, as soon as yuuri stops playing, puts the recorded version of stammi vicino on repeat.

“dance with me?” viktor extends a hand. yuuri, as always, takes it.

the house tour can wait, viktor supposes. tonight isn’t the night to unpack old memory. tonight he can dance the night away with his husband on dirty hardwood floor, let moonlight wash over them through the windows, and be alright.


	7. reminder

“don’t forget to bring an umbrella,” says viktor when yuuri’s about to go to the convenience store and forgets to look out the window, where the afternoon sun starts to be obscured by dark clouds.

“don’t forget the sunscreen,” says viktor before they go out for a picnic at hasetsu’s beach the next summer over.

“glasses,” viktor calls out, trying to catch up with yuuri who somehow managed to leave the rink’s changing room with blurry vision, his glasses laying somewhere on the bench in front of the lockers.

“yuuuuuri, don’t leave me behind!” viktor whines, holding on tight to one of yuuri’s arms while his legs drag underneath him, slipping on the hardwood floor of that year’s post-worlds championship banquet room. yuuri, who’s sworn off alcohol ever since the night’s begun, only laughs and scoops viktor up in a bridal carry to take him back to their room.

“wrap your legs tighter!” viktor shouts the moment yuuri hits the ground on an uncomfortable angle and almost nosedives to the ice, desperately trying to save his landing. “remember to tell your body we’re going for four and a half rotations, otherwise we’re going nowhere. start from the top,”

“you know, i never really thought i was forgetful until i knew you,” yuuri says, not looking up from his phone. he’s sitting cross legged, leaning against the foot of their bed, and he hears rather than sees his husband entering their bedroom.

viktor immediately plops down on the floor and sidles up to yuuri until they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, with practically no distance between them.

“well, it’s my job to remind you,” says viktor, peppering yuuri’s shoulderblade with kisses before nuzzling into yuuri’s neck. that’s enough to take yuuri’s attention off the screen, and yuuri turns to tilt viktor’s chin sideways to better kiss him on the mouth.

“i was a forgetful person too, once,” viktor says once they part, “you’ve seen it yourself. i forgot my promise to choreograph a program for yurio. i once forgot what city i was in after a competition, because, i don’t know,” viktor shrugs in an attempt to look nonchalant, sighing. “i was too out of it, maybe? to be honest, i didn’t even remember how it’s like to live and be in love.

"but after meeting you, i remembered everything, and it was like i didn’t want to forget anything ever again, because there’s a chance i might forget something that involves you. so i want to return the favour now,”

yuuri hums in understanding. “what did you come here to remind me of?”

“look at me,” viktor says, and yuuri meets his gaze as steadily as he can. “you’re one of the best men’s singles skaters currently competing, and the best skater japan’s seen in a decade, and you rightfully won worlds by a huge margin, broke my records, and,” viktor leans to snatch yuuri’s phone from his distracted grip, locks the screen, and lobs it behind his back, where it lands somewhere between their pillows, “the people in that forum you’re so fond of visiting only know how to talk  _shit_ ,”

yuuri has never heard viktor cuss before. “vitya,”

“what? it’s true,” viktor replies brightly. “please stick to twitter for once in your life,”

“i can’t just look at the nice comments, there needs to be a balance–”

“yuuri, they’re deliberately grasping at straws to mock you, that’s not balance,” viktor crosses his arms. “if you need constructive criticism, you have me. or am i not enough? should i be more straightforward in my approach?”

yuuri winces. “no. you’re, uh. you’re direct enough as it is,”

“good! so, can you remember what i said now?”

“what, that you’re a bit tactless?”

“noooo,” viktor whines. “yeah, okay, maybe i am. but that’s not what i mean. i mean the other thing, the part where i said you’re amazing and deserves everything good in life,”

yuuri can’t help but laugh at that. “alright, i’ll try to,”

“thank you,” viktor says softly in return, pressing his lips on top of yuuri’s head.


	8. highschool au

“The moon is beautiful,” Yuuri sighs into his palm, his voice muffled.

“Of course,” Viktor replies.

“No, Vitya, you don’t get it,” and only now does Viktor look up from his book to see Yuuri looking at him intently, his beautiful brown eyes like molten gold behind his glasses. “If there were actually people who lived there, I imagine they would be ethereal. All elegant lines and graceful limbs. They’ll take the earth people for a dance when they descend, and after that, we’re just left to admire them. But we’ll be okay with that,”

Viktor likes hearing Yuuri tell stories like this, has been in love with his words and purple prose since they were but kids, playing make-believe with wings made of burrowed snow. Yuuri’s voice always gets so dreamy. Viktor wears it around his heart like a caress he’s reluctant to let go of. “Go on,”

“They’ll have the deepest blue eyes, like an ocean where you can drown, but they won’t let you. They’ll pull you up to meet them where they are, and,” Yuuri frowns. “Um. Can you lie down?”

“Sure,” Viktor says easily, straightening his knees and sliding down the headboard of Yuuri’s creaky bed to make himself comfortable.

“So, the people from the moon, I think they’ll glow. So bright, and so steady,” Yuuri leans over him, his hands busy around Viktor’s head. He can hear Yuuri’s heartbeat, hammering and loud, how it matches Viktor’s own thrumming pulse. Yuuri is so close to him, they’re almost touching. Viktor can count his eyelashes, can feel his warm breath against his cheek.

Viktor dimly realises Yuuri has rearranged his hair so it’ll spread out and frame his face as some kind of a halo when Yuuri finishes moving, steadying himself with both arms caging Viktor inbetween. “They’ll glow, like such,”

And how can Yuuri lightly make comparisons like that, like _Viktor’s_ the one who’s magical, when Yuuri burns so brightly everytime he smiles, taking down even the sturdiest mountains of a heart with him? When Yuuri is the dancer with purpose in his every step, the wizard who bewitches Viktor’s breath out of his lungs just with a lift of his dainty finger? When Viktor’s the one who can’t say no to whatever he says, including this?

Their lips are centimetres apart. Viktor is this close to short-circuiting. “My sun,” he whispers, letting the nickname kiss Yuuri instead of doing the deed himself. Yuuri blinks. Viktor is a goner.

“Ah. Sorry?” Yuuri asks, unsure, straightening his elbows to put more distance between them. Viktor’s lungs almost collapse from the amount of air they’re finally able to take in.

“If I get to be your moon, then you should be my sun,” Viktor clarifies after he’s recovered from being in Yuuri’s proximity for too long. “The way you shine,”

“A-ah,” Yuuri stammers out. “I’m not sure if that fits me, really. I don’t–I’m not a person with bright vibes. I cry a lot. I’m not special–”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Viktor cuts him off. This is his short window to snatch Yuuri up from the underbelly of vicious waves, before his enigmatic poet wilts into a mimosa that won’t unfurl no matter what. A stubborn mimosa, just like a stubborn sunlight that beats down upon your back. Viktor is so in love with him. “You’re magnificent. The centre of my universe. I can’t shine without you,”

The corners of Yuuri’s mouth soften at that, even though the rest of him is having a hard time taking Viktor’s words on face value just yet. “Okay, then,” he lets his forehead boops Viktor’s gently, rests there as he continues. “My moonlight. My stardust,”

“My sunshine,” Viktor replies, obedient. His eyes trace the perfect, familiar, perfectly familiar lines of Yuuri’s eyes, his nose, his jaw, the slope of his lips. Oh, how Viktor longs to taste the flares of his system’s star. How he longs to burn.

 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @yuliaplisetskaya


End file.
